


Paint | JFGogh (discontinued)

by simp_of_arc



Category: Clone High
Genre: Bisexual, Clone High - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Gay, JFgogh, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simp_of_arc/pseuds/simp_of_arc
Summary: “I-er-uh... I think this is yours,” JFK said, lowering his voice so as to not scare Van Gogh. The redhead instinctively projected his body backwards, away from JFK. He suddenly noticed the painting in his hands.“Where did you get that…?” Van Gogh asked.“I-er-uh… found this in the trash. I don’t know how it got in there, but I figured I should, er uh, return it to you.”“Put it back where I put it. It belongs in the trash,” he mumbled.
Relationships: JFK & Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High), JFK/Vincent Van Gogh (Clone High), Joan of Arc/JFK (Clone High)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 589





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uh yeah i kinda hate this but i decided to fuck around and post this on ao3 impulsively, lmk if you want a part two

Van Gogh sighed as he leaned his body into the privacy of his locker. He was holding his art project, a painting, in both hands. His eyes scanned through every single slight imperfection in said project. He got an A, as always, but he never thought he earned them. No matter how many compliments he received from his art teacher, he still hated his artwork. Some weak shading here, an accidental blank spot there, everything he hated. 

He would stay up all night doing his paintings, whether for school or pleasure alone. After he would finish them, usually when the sun was about to rise, he would compare his work to one of his clone-father’s, the original Vincent Van Gogh’s, paintings by googling them on the internet. Nothing satisfied him. All of that time and hard work lead to just disappointment, and inevitably a bunch of jocks shoving him into a locker the next day and breaking his canvas in half.

The only people who seemed to actually like his artwork were his foster parents and his art teacher. At least, that’s what they told him. At this point, he assumed they were just saying that they liked his art for pity, or because it met certain criteria to get a good grade. In his mind, nobody liked his art. That’s what happened to the original Van Gogh, so inevitably, it happened to him, and this time, his paintings wouldn’t become historically famous.

Van Gogh tried to keep a low profile while creeping over to the trashcan to throw his art project away; that’s where he figured it belonged, anyway. He hoped to death that maybe this day would be one of those remarkable days where he didn’t get shoved into a locker by jocks. Anything would be better than that. 

As quick as he could, he dropped the painting into the trash, and he rushed as fast as he could back to his locker where nobody could see him, and this time, he willingly shoved himself into his locker. He didn’t really have the strength to face anyone anymore.

*****

It was a normal day for JFK; reminisce over his breakup with Cleopatra, sulk over the death of his best friend, Ponce de León, get a boner in the middle of class for Joan of Arc, and then bully some quiet kids and freshmen with his friends. It was all routine for him. 

He was strutting through the halls, like always, with everyone’s eyes glued on him; whether they were admiring him or scared shitless by him. He would occasionally throw finger guns (despite not quite being over his fear of them) at Gandhi and Ceasar while doing so. Although class was in less than two minutes, he took his sweet, sweet time getting to his locker, which wasn’t out of character for him. 

A few feet from his locker, the sight of Cleo and Abraham Lincoln caught his eye. They weren’t doing anything sickly romantic, like making out or getting all touchy-feely where the whole junior year class could see, they were simply having a, what seemed to be, a normal conversation. Regardless, JFK was still pissed off, and all of the heartache he endured from Cleo choosing Abe over him returned.

But, a few seconds later, something much more pleasant to the eye caught his attention; Joan of Arc. 

The two weren’t strangers in the slightest. They were not exactly romantically involved, but more like… friends with benefits. Yeah, sleeping with each other was a frequent thing they did, and nobody knew about it but them. To JFK, that meant something to him, because if Joan was keeping their whole sexual relationship a secret, she wasn’t just doing it to make Abe, the guy she pined for god knows how long, jealous. Then again, that was the best-case scenario, JFK had very little knowledge of what went on in Joan of Arc’s head; besides angsty poetry and the fact that she was willing to sleep with him frequently.

Joan was simply minding her own business, stuffing piles of books from her previous class into her locker, when she was suddenly startled by JFK slamming her locker door. The books she was holding fell from her grasp onto the floor, which made a sound so loud that some students turned their heads to see where the sound came from.

“What the hell, Kennedy!? I have class in like…” she checked her watch, “thirty seconds!”

“I er uh... just wanted to drop in and say hi,” JFK responded in a cocky tone.

“I don’t believe that for a second. No JFK I know just wants to ‘drop in and say hi,’ that’s bullshit.”

“That’s not true! The original JFK would’ve been the type to drop in and say hi!’

Joan deadpanned at JFK for approximately four-and-a-half-seconds before slapping him across the face.

“Ow! What was that for? I, er uh, didn’t say anything inherently sexist!” JFK protested, rubbing his cheek where Joan of Arc slapped him.

She rolled her eyes, “Look, if you’re just talking to me because you want something, just say it. I don’t want any pleasantries.”

JFK took a big long sigh before saying, “Fine, ya got me. How ‘bout we go to my place tonight, aye? My foster dads are gonna be out.”

“I can’t tonight, I promised Abe I would help him get Cleo a gift for their two month anniversary,” her eyes almost rolled back into her head when she said ‘two month anniversary.’ 

“What? You would, er uh, ignore these abs and this ass for your bozo friend? You really need to get your priorities straight, of Arc,” he said, crossing his arms and making a pouty face.

“I know, I know, getting a piece of Kennedy ass is much more meaningful than being a good friend.”

“Hey! Are you making a mockery of me?”

“God, the answer is no, okay? We’ve been doing this for multiple times a week for the past month, haven’t you considered, y’know, taking a break? Because I sure need one!” Joan angrily stuffed her books back into her locker as she said this. Her pale skin was becoming almost as red as her hair from the current frustration.

“I’m a Kennedy! I’m not accustomed to taking breaks from having hot sex with a goth girl!”

“Well, maybe you should give it a try! Might give your junk some time to breathe!”

The bell had rung several seconds earlier, so Joan grabbed her stuff, shut her locker, and shoved by Kennedy to calculus. He had no more cocky responses to give out, he simply stood there in silence. His brain still couldn’t fathom that he actually got rejected, and by Joan of Arc of all people.

Class was in session, but JFK didn’t give a shit. He had more important things to worry about; like how he was going to survive Joan’s “break.” The easiest thing to do was sleep with some other ladies, but it just wasn’t the same. It wouldn’t be the same without Joan. 

His body was slightly more bent over as he sulked down the empty hallway. After a few minutes, he passed by the locker of Ponce de León. There were still bouquets and other gifts surrounding it from his funeral, along with the centerpiece: a portrait of him.

“I wonder what you would’ve done, Poncey. I wonder how you would've handled getting rejected by a girl,” JFK stared at the portrait. A single tear trailed down his face as he rolled up his sleeve. The tattoo was still there, clear as day. “Two peas in a pod,” he read the text on the tattoo out loud to himself as a way of assurance. 

He took a Kleenex tissue out of his pocket (he always carried them everywhere he went) and blew his nose into it. He felt a lump in his throat, and he swallowed it back as hard as he could. No more crying. 

He crumpled up the tissue and went over to the trashcan to throw it away. That was when he caught a glimpse of something, something that looked too not-disgusting to be in a trashcan. JFK brushed some of the other pieces of trash aside and pulled out the object. It was a painting, the kind with the thick paints on a canvas. He couldn’t take his eyes away from it; it was just so… different. It was unlike any other painting that he’s ever seen. As someone who sucked absolute ass at art, this painting had JFK hypnotized from its sophistication. Every single little detail of the painting amazed him, so much so that he spent the rest of the period staring blankly at it in a trance.

He only snapped out of it when the bell rang and students flooded the hallway. JFK finally looked up to see what was happening, and that was when he noticed a little signature in the bottom left corner of the artwork. It read, “Vincent Van Gogh”.

 _Van Gogh? That short little quiet kid painted this?_ JFK thought.

He started to wonder how this ended up in the trash in the first place. Did his jock friends do it? Did it somehow end up in there by accident? In any case, he felt an overwhelming need to get this painting back to Van Gogh. The fact that a painting such as that was in the trash just… didn’t sit right with him. 

As if on cue, the small figure of Van Gogh slowly and sadly walked over to his locker to put his stuff away. After getting a good look at him, JFK felt an overwhelming surge of guilt. He had bullied this kid before… his friends did it more than he did, but he definitely recalled saying and doing mean things to him once or twice. It felt… bad. It was one of the extremely rare cases where he actually felt sympathy for another person besides himself.

JFK stood up, the painting in his hands, and walked over to Van Gogh’s locker. Van Gogh was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice Kennedy come up behind him.

“I er... I think this is yours,” JFK said, lowering his voice so as to not scare Van Gogh. The redhead instinctively recoiled away from JFK. He suddenly noticed the painting in his hands.

“Where did you get that…?” Van Gogh asked.

“I found this in the trash. I don’t know how it got in there, but I figured I should, er uh, return it to you.”

“Put it back where I put it. It belongs in the trash,” he mumbled.

“You put this in the trash yourself? I, er, disagree with your statement, shortstack. I think this painting is an absolute masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”

“You mean… you like it…?”

“It’s better than anything I could do! All I can draw is stick figures. My jock hands weren’t built to do art,” JFK responded.

Van Gogh seemed to be in awe that a himbo such as JF-fucking-K would actually, sincerely like his artwork.

“You can keep it, then, I don’t want it.”

“No! It's your painting, and that means you’re gonna have it. Tell me otherwise, and I’ll sock you one!”

“Fine, fine, Jesus Christ, I’ll take it,” Van Gogh reached for his painting before JFK pulled his arms away for a moment.

“Woah, woah woah… woah. Woah. Now, before I give you this painting, you gotta promise me something!” JFK’s voice returned to its normal loud demeanor, “You can’t throw this painting into the trash again, it doesn’t belong there. Please keep painting, I wanna see more of ‘em. I like them. A lot.” he said.

Van Gogh hesitated before reluctantly nodding his head, “Alright. I promise I won’t throw it into the trash.”

JFK smiled, satisfied, and leaned down to give Van Gogh his work. He stared at it, unsatisfied, but also satisfied. Unsatisfied with his work, but satisfied that someone actually _liked_ it.

“See you around, shortstack,” JFK said. Before Van Gogh had the chance to respond, JFK already headed off to his own locker. Van Gogh couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. Yes, he’s seen JFK many times previously, but this time, he was seeing him in a completely different light than he did before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tall hair? Red sweater? Cute accent?” she asked.
> 
> “Yeah. He was built like a jock, yet he was actually being nice to me, and now I’m in emotional confusion.”
> 
> “I believe I might know who you’re talking about,”
> 
> “I mean, yeah, you go to my school, right?” he asked.
> 
> “Mhm,” she hummed.
> 
> Van Gogh adjusted his sitting position, “Who are you, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the part two so many people wanted. thank you for the support! i appreciate it endlessly.

JFK could barely focus in his next class. Every time he would try to bring his mind back to whatever lesson they were learning, his mind would drift back to that red-headed quiet kid and his immaculate panting. And, every time he would drift off, his eyes would end up looking around the room, and every time he looked around the room, his eyes would land on  _ Joan.  _ That never ended well; every time he so much as glanced at her she would flip him off. 

Besides Joan, his mind was stuck on Van Gogh, and he couldn’t get it off. He had no idea why, he just… couldn’t. He wanted to see him more, to talk to him more, to get to  _ know  _ him more. Something about him just drew him in. He couldn’t quite identify what that was.

The bell finally rang, which was a big relief to JFK; he didn’t want Joan to death-stare him anymore. He packed his stuff into his backpack and made his way out of the classroom, trying to leave this situation as quickly as possible. He sped-walked out to his locker and grabbed whatever he needed for his next class.

JFK shut his locker door, and standing there behind it was who he feared seeing the most; Joan of Arc, the girl who just yelled at him around an hour earlier. 

“Aah!” he shouted, startled the fuck out of.

“Hey, Kennedy,” Joan responded.

“I thought you, er, hated me or somethin’ like that,” he said.

“Look, I wanted to apologize for being a bitch earlier. I uh… should’ve put my words nicer. Look, the sex has been nice, but I don’t want  _ just  _ that, you know?”

“You mean a relationshi-”

“No. Absolutely not. I meant a  _ friend _ ship.”

“Oh.”

Joan crossed her arms, a piece of her magenta hair falling into her face. She adjusted her weight from her right leg to her left.

“I’m gonna be honest, Abe is a lost cause to me. All he cares about is his… fucking… girlfriend, it’s like I don’t even exist! But  _ you  _ actually give a shit about my existence, like, after we ‘do it,’ you always ask if I’m okay, you get me something to drink, you’re… a fucking simp. A good simp. You’re too stupid to be my boyfriend, so maybe we could at least be friends, huh?”

“Friends… who sometimes have sex…?” JFK asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Joan was about to slap him across the face like she did many times before, but she restrained herself, “I didn’t say the break was over, Kennedy.”

“So, er uh, no sex?”

“No sex. You’ll get over it.”

“I’ve never been in a completely platonic relationship with a girl before,” JFK remarked.

“Well, it’s either that, or no Joan at all, got it?” she snapped, contorting her body into the strange way she always stood which always made JFK think she definitely needed a chiropractor.

“Fine, fine, fine. I, er uh, will survive, I guess,” he wasn’t completely against the idea. Perhaps being just friends with a hot goth girl would change his life for the better.

“Good, it’s surely better than Abe being the ignorant ass he is. Makes me think maybe I should raise my standards a notch. Good thing I canceled my plans with Abe, I’m running the hotline again tonight. Helping people is much more important to me than hopelessly pining.”

“I told ya that Lincoln’s a chowderhead! Was about time you, er uh, finally saw I was right.”

Joan laughed, wiping a joyful tear from her eye. It seemed that someone insulting someone who practically broke her heart gave her some much-needed serotonin. JFK awkwardly smiled back as he shut the door to his locker. The two walked to their next class together with, finally, relief from all of that tension.

*****

Van Gogh was fighting back the urge to hurl his art project into his lit fireplace when he got home. He hated it, all he wanted to see of it was its burnt ashes. What made it worse was the fact Monet and Da Vinci gave him constructive criticisms, reasonable and nicely put constructive criticisms, and made him despise his painting and himself even more than he already did. He knew he was sensitive, he knew his fellow artists meant no harm, yet he still acted like this.

But still, he kept the painting. Not for himself, not for his art teacher, not for Monet and Da Vinci, and not for his foster parents. He kept it because he made a promise to that tall jock kid. It seemed really important to him to keep it, so despite never talking to the guy beforehand, he didn’t throw his painting into the fireplace that night. He instead slid it under his bed so he would never have to see it again. 

Van Gogh collapsed on his bed, breathing out an audible sigh that let out all of the bad things life had handed him that day. His body sunk into the firm mattress. He turned his head to look at the vase of sunflowers on his windowsill; he always did this to make himself feel better. It never really helped much, but it at least made him feel slightly less shitty. They were the prettiest flowers he’d ever picked; they weren’t small like other flowers, they were big and tall with thick stems. He often had dreams of himself being surrounded in a maze of sunflowers that grew twice the height of him.

He immediately looked away from the sunflowers when he felt the urge to paint them. Van Gogh had painted them many times before, and every time he would, he would try to get closer and closer to perfection. He wanted to paint the sunflowers yet again, but he resisted his urge. He didn’t want to disappoint himself like always.

For Van Gogh, painting was his only coping mechanism for all of the shit going on in his head. It wasn’t like there were voices in his head or anything, there was just a dark cloud of overwhelming sadness floating over him at all hours of the day, and the only time he ever felt happy was when he created art. But, after hours of work, the finished piece would always end up in the trash.

It was one of those days; the worst days. He figured he needed to do something about it.

He took out his cell phone and dialed a number that he had memorized at this point.

He lifted the phone to his bandage-covered ear.

“Teen crisis hotline, we’re here because we care,” a female voice answered.

“Hi, um, it’s me again… for the fifth time this month…” Van Gogh responded.

“I thought I recognized your voice.”

“Sorry… I’m probably bothering you…”

“No, no, don’t worry about that right now. Just tell me what’s on your mind,” the girl said.

Van Gogh sighed before speaking again, “I’m really depressed. All the time. But, you know that already.”

“I do, yes.”

“But, something strange happened to me today. Well, not exactly strange, but unusual for a guy like me.”

“Oh?” the girl inquired.

“Yeah. Uhh… I threw out my art project… because I hated it. But uh… basically, this jock guy dug it out of the trash? He had, like, really tall hair, a red sweater, kind of attractive, actually. So, um, he, like, gave it to me and told me he loved it or something? And told me not to throw it away, and told me to keep painting, and I thought that was kinda weird. Like, mostly jocks break my paintings and stuff me into a locker, but this guy… he was different. His accent was cute,” he explained.

“Tall hair? Red sweater? Cute accent?” she asked.

“Yeah. He was built like a jock, yet he was actually being nice to me, and now I’m in emotional confusion.”

“I believe I might know who you’re talking about,”

“I mean, yeah, you go to my school, right?” he asked.

“Mhm,” she hummed.

Van Gogh adjusted his sitting position, “Who are you, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.”

She hesitated for a few moments, “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’ll make an exception for you. I’m Joan.”

“Joan?  _ Of Arc _ Joan?” his eyes widened.

“Mhm, that’s me. And you’re Van Gogh, right?”

“Yeah…”

“And that dude you were talking about… was that JFK?”

“Yes! That was his name.”

“Well, in that case,” Joan continued, “I think you should try to talk to him. He looks dumb and scary on the outside, but he really is a good guy. Maybe making some more non-jock friends would help him more in life.”

Van Gogh laughed at Joan’s comment. He was feeling a little bit better than he did a few minutes earlier.

“I have no idea how to talk to people, though,” he said.

“He doesn’t either, trust me, but he tries his best. If you find him cute, shoot your shot, man.”

Van Gogh thanked Joan for her encouraging words before hanging up. He laid back down on his bed and stared at the sunflowers once again. He didn’t think that Joan’s advice would be very helpful, but it brought him happiness that at least  _ someone  _ was rooting for him. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t care about that right now. JFK, do you like men?” Joan asked, her tongue speaking quickly.  
> “Do I what?”  
> “You heard me, asshole, do you like men?”  
> “Is there a reason you’re, er, asking me this?” 
> 
> Joan seemed to get more and more frustrated with his hesitation, “You’re dodging the question, bud. I’m going to ask you again, do you like men?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this mf took me like two days to write jfc
> 
> but that's beside the point THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT it means the absolute world to me i wish i could hug every single one of you

It was, once again, a normal day for JFK. Well, somewhat. He did what he usually did, he said what he usually said, he talked to who he usually talked to. The only difference was Van Gogh was still contaminating all of the thoughts in his head, even more than twenty-four hours after the encounter the day before. He tried to think of anyone else, Ponce, Cleo, Joan, Gandhi, Caesar, he even tried to get focused on being pissed at Abe again. 

Nothing worked. What annoyed him the most about this situation was he didn’t have a clue why this short, red-headed classmate that he had _one_ conversation with clouded his mind so much. He wanted to understand, but he just couldn’t. It was a mystery.

“Kennedy!” JFK was startled by a person sitting next to him at his lunch table, where that time he sat alone. He didn’t have the energy to interact with “the boys” that day.

“Why do you have to, er, always scare me like that, Of Arc? Have you ever heard of normal introductions?” he protested, his brows furrowing.

“I don’t care about that right now. JFK, do you like men?” Joan asked, her tongue speaking quickly.

“Do I what?”

“You heard me, asshole, do you like men?”

“Is there a reason you’re, er, asking me this?” 

Joan seemed to get more and more frustrated with his hesitation, “You’re dodging the question, bud. I’m going to ask you again,  _ do you like men _ ?”

“Er… uh… I er uh... uh…” his entire face flushed red in embarrassment. He felt so violated.

“Uncertainty, I see. Interesting. Are you sure? You seemed pretty flirtatious with me when I was disguised as John D’Arc that one time…”

“That didn’t count! You were dressed as a guy, but you still currently identify as a girl! It's like, er uh, drag, you know?” JFK protested.

“But, you were under the impression that I was male, correct?” Joan inquired.

“Yeah, but…” he had nothing left to say. Joan presented a strong argument.

Joan took a bite of her gross cafeteria ham sandwich before looking back at JFK, who was mind-boggled and flustered. He seemed to be stuck in deep contemplation; she could tell by the way his face scrunched. He soon snapped out of it to look back at her.

“What about you, er, do you like women?” JFK asked, taking a sip of a can of Coke he got from the vending machine earlier, “You asked me, therefore, I ask you.”

“I mean… I’d probably bang Cleo,” Joan smirked. She turned her head to see Cleo and Abe conversing at another table. She turned her head back to JFK before Abe could see her.

JFK spit out his drink, the brown sugary beverage leaving speckles around his mouth, “You WHAT!?”

“Yeah, heh, kinda crazy, right? I’m not exactly sure of how I feel about women in general. In regards to being attracted to them, I mean. I’m still trying to figure that stuff out.”

“But you, er uh, just admitted to having a crush on my ex-girlfriend.”

“Not a crush, Kennedy, I just said I would bang her. I wouldn’t go out of my way to do so, but if I was in that position, you wouldn’t see me complaining.”

“But… how would two girls even…”

Joan cut him off, “Life has many mysteries, Jack, many mysteries.”

JFK looked at Joan inquisitively, but didn’t ask any more questions. Yes, he had two foster dads, but he was still relatively uneducated on all of the different types of sexualities and such. It was very new to him, a jock who surrounded himself in heteronormativity and toxic masculinity.

His mind went back to the question at hand, “Hey, er uh, why were you asking me in the first place?”

“Because apparently, you have a thing for artists,” Joan gave JFK a look he couldn’t decipher.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You and Van Gogh?”

JFK could almost feel his heart physically drop, “H-how do you know about that…?”

“Don’t worry, man, it’s not like the whole school knows. Van Gogh called the hotline last night and told me all about it,” Joan explained.

“The hotline?”

“Yeah, the hotline. He said it put him in emotional confusion or something like that. You should go talk to him, y’know? He’s really sweet once you get to know him.”

JFK shrugged, contemplating Joan’s suggestion. He figured a kid such as Van Gogh, who was most likely an art prodigy, wouldn’t go for him. JFK was a jock, a himbo, a womanizer, and Van Gogh didn’t seem to be any of those things. Hell, he’d probably hate a guy like JFK. Plus, considering how much Van Gogh has plagued his mind for the past day, that would probably project into his approach and he would seem like a stalker.

“Look, he’s over there,” Joan pointed over to a table in the corner of the cafeteria. There he was, sitting alone with nothing but a pencil, a sketchbook, and a bag of Cape Cod chips. He looked somber, but also very focused on whatever he was drawing in said sketchbook. 

“Yeah, and…?” JFK asked.

“And!? Go talk to him!”

“Now!?”

“Yeah, dumbass! I thought you popular kids had this socialization stuff down already! Just do it, you won’t be disappointed. Trust me,” Joan was already pulling on his arm. JFK didn’t budge, but he sighed and gave in anyway. He stood up and began to slowly walk over to Van Gogh’s table, all while Joan quietly clapped her hands together and whispered, “Yesyesyesyesyesyes!”

Van Gogh was enthralled in his own mind, barely noticing the world surrounding him. All his mind was set on was the task at hand; his drawing. It was of a sunflower, of course. But this time, it wasn’t a field or a pot of multiple sunflowers. The sketch depicted one singular sunflower lying on a flat surface in a puddle of water. He didn’t know what happened to the sunflower that made it end up in that situation, but he drew it regardless.

He went over the outlines multiple times with his pencil to make them thicker and darker. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, but he was less ashamed of it than usual. His eyes were so set on his sketch that he didn’t even realize that someone sat next to him.

“Hey, er uh, what’cha drawing there?” a voice said. Van Gogh yelped, startled. He snapped his head into the direction of the voice, and even more to his anxiety, it was the guy who returned his painting the day before. The guy who Joan of Arc confirmed to be the clone of John F. Kennedy.

“Uh… uhm… I…” Van Gogh stammered over his words, “J-just a sunflower. N-nothing special,” he closed his sketchbook.

“I, er uh, like sunflowers.”

“Y-you do…?”

“Yeah. They’re very pretty.”

Van Gogh was still in astonishment from JFK’s approach, and the fact that he was actually talking to him. He never knew a guy like him would appreciate the simple things, like art and sunflowers. He always figured that JFK only cared about sleeping with the hottest girls in school. But… maybe there was more to him than just that.

“Wanna see my drawing then?” Van Gogh asked, his voice quiet and timid.

“That’s what I wanted to see in the first place, so yes.”

Van Gogh opened his sketchbook back up, showing the pencil drawing of the singular sunflower. He watched JFK’s eyes lock on the drawing, examining every stroke of pencil.

“I like it a lot,” he said after a good twenty seconds of staring, “can I borrow that?”

“Yeah, but you gotta promise not to look through it.”

“Scouts’ honor.”

Van Gogh hesitated before handing him the sketchbook. JFK turned to a blank page and began drawing something. He flipped back between Van Gogh’s drawing and his own. After a minute or two, he slid the sketchbook on the table back to its owner. 

“Do you, er uh, like it? It kinda sucks but I hope it doesn’t suck too much,” JFK said.

He was right, it did suck, but there was a sort of charm to it that Van Gogh couldn’t put his finger on. It was another drawing of singular sunflower, except this time it seemed to happily inhabit a vase. It was simple, no shading, and thick uneven lines, but something about the drawing made him smile. 

“I do like it,” he said, still smiling, “wanna sign it?”

JFK nodded, scribbling an almost illegible “JFK” on the page. He looked back to Van Gogh, who was still smiling, and smiled back at him, “I’ve never seen you smile before, shortstack.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t really smile that much,” he went back to a neutral expression.

“No, wait, smile again,” Van Gogh, as told, smiled again, “Ah. Your smile reminds me of Poncey.”

“Ponce?” Van Gogh asked, “You and him were friends, right?”

“Best friends… but it always felt more than that. Now that I think about it… I er… probably had a thing for him, y’know?”

Van Gogh’s eyes widened, “I didn’t know you liked guys.”

“To be frank, neither did I. But I suppose, er, leaning both ways is a thing?”

“It is.”

“What about you?” JFK asked.

“Huh?”

“Which way do you lean?”

“Uh… I haven’t really thought about that before. I guess I’m gay? But I’ve never had an actual crush on someone.”

The two sat in silence for several seconds until the bell rang. Clusters of students were flooding out of the cafeteria at once.

“Hey, er uh, Vince,” the name caught Van Gogh off-guard, probably because it was something other than ‘shortstack.’

“Yeah?”

“We, er, have calculus together, right? Want to walk with me to class? Just so Ceasar or Henry VIII don’t bother ya, y’know?”

He felt his face heat up. He wanted to say yes, but not for the sake of being protected. If he could paint a humiliating portrait to get back at Gandhi during that party, he could surely deal with scary guys like Caesar or Henry VIII. The real reason he was doing this was, well, because he just wanted an excuse for this slightly dumb, cute, nice guy to walk him to class. “Y-yeah, I’d like that a lot,” he complied.


End file.
